


It's Not What You're Doing, It's Who

by moosewingz



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Alistair is constantly frustrated, Bad Innuendo, Community: smallfandomfest, M/M, Morrigan just thinks the whole thing is hilarious, Prompt Fic, Wardens just laugh at their companions all the time, Zevran being Zevran
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-03
Updated: 2011-11-03
Packaged: 2017-10-25 16:17:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/272274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moosewingz/pseuds/moosewingz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alistair finally reaches his breaking point. Zevran enjoys himself.</p><p>Written for the prompt: "Alistair/Zevran - Alistair is fed up with Zevran's flirting with the Warden Commander."</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's Not What You're Doing, It's Who

**Author's Note:**

> I don't actually ship Alistair/Zevran but the opportunity to write Dragon Age fic for smallfandomfest was too much to resist. It's the first Dragon Age fic I ever wrote, so characterisation and voices might be a bit off. Any and all comments appreciated, concrit included!
> 
> Rated for innuendo (really, awfully bad innuendo) and implications. There's nothing explicit in here though.
> 
> This has been cross-posted to my LJ.

They’d set camp for the night, but the Frostback Mountains were aptly named, so Cora - the other Grey Warden - had sent both Alistair and Zevran to search for firewood. Zevran had suggested that Morrigan or Wynne use their powers to keep the camp warm (thus avoiding the need for him to step out into the cold that was so different from his home in Antiva) but Cora had raised a sardonic eyebrow; after the “Well, if you’re so desperate for our mages to be defenceless in the event of an attack tonight or tomorrow, then I’m sure they wouldn’t mind...” he’d given it up as a bad job and just done as he was told. So now Alistair was staggering along behind the elf, arms full of branches, stomping his feet to encourage circulation.

The situation was doing nothing to improve the bad mood that had been plaguing him all day. First he’d woken to find that Cora’s mabari, Hamish, had chewed his way through his only remaining pair of clean breeches. Then Morrigan had been in charge of breakfast - the tastiness of the stew didn’t counteract her smirk, leaving him certain he was about to keel over from poison at any moment. Orzammar was still at least five days away, and considering Cora’s map-reading skills, the journey would probably take even longer. And all day, _the whole damned day_ , Zevran had been flirting with his fellow Warden.

Not that this was anything unusual. Zevran flirted with all the women in their party and those that they met (although Morrigan more rarely, since it appeared that even he was somewhat cowed by her icy glare) and even some of the men. And Cora - when she wasn’t under pressure to do the right thing for everyone and save all of Ferelden - enjoyed tossing teasing smiles at the assassin and giving back as good as she got. Alistair knew that the whole thing was almost certainly just their chosen method of relaxation, of keeping the terrible tension that hung over all of them at bay. But it still grated.

And today, every grin that shone a little too bright, every gaze that lingered just a moment longer than was proper, every word that was rolled around a mouth full of innuendo and brazen undertones ratcheted his bad mood even higher.

Alright, so maybe the stomping wasn’t just a defence against the cold.

When Zevran stopped again, crouching to gather up a few more pieces of the dead wood less covered by the wet snow that was everywhere, Alistair tried to erase the frown lines that he could feel developing between his eyes. Just as he smoothed his face back into a mask of apathy, Zev turned and threw a handful more kindling into Alistair’s arms without a word. A brisk tug settled his cloak more firmly around his shoulders and then he was off again, not even glancing at Alistair. He wasn’t even carrying any wood himself!

Something inside Alistair snapped.

“Archdemon’s teeth, you have got to stop it!”

Zevran certainly looked at him then. With raised eyebrows and a supercilious quirk to his mouth.

“Stop what, Alistair? Collecting wood, perhaps? Maybe you would prefer for us to freeze to death in these mountains? Or would you rather I stop keeping an eye out for any game? From what I’ve seen so far, both you and your fellow Warden are rather fond of your food; I would have thought that you’d want to eat tonight.”

“You’re looking for food? You mean we’ll be able to eat something other than dry rations and- No, wait, that wasn’t the point, and actually I’d appreciate it if maybe you could carry some of this wood yourself, it is rather heavy, but no, that’s not what I meant!” Alistair tended to babble when he got flustered, be it from embarrassment or anger or a combination of both. “I mean, you’ve got to stop the endless flirting with Cora! She promised herself to another dwarf before she left Orzammar, and you know that, and you know that you’ll never get anywhere but you just keep pushing! Just - just stop!”

He threw down his bundle of wood for emphasis.

A pause.

Zevran’s smirk curved into a proper grin as he span to face Alistair fully.

“Ah, so it has finally come up. Mayhap you will challenge me for her honour then? Isn’t that how you knightly templar types work? Or will you continue making eyes at her when you think she will not notice?”

Alistair had heard the phrase ‘turn your frown upside-down’, and although he knew this wasn’t what it meant, it certainly felt like an apt description for the way his face muscles loosened and then tightened again. He was still frowning, but his anger had been turned on its head, replaced by confusion.

“What? Challenge you for her- no! Why would I- she wouldn’t want me to, and she doesn’t need anyone to protect her honour! We all know she can take you in a fight, even with all your assassiny tricksiness. And anyway, well, just, just _no_.”

A blush spread across his cheeks, discomfiture making them as red as the cold had made his nose. Zevran grinned wider, stepped closer. Alistair could feel the heat building in the space between their chests.

“Then how can you possibly hope to stop me, Alistair? The Warden enjoys my company now, why should she not also enjoy it in bed - or in other places -” he eyelids dropped for a moment, conveying as much innuendo as the warm Antivan accent, “in the future. How do you know she does not already? After all, I do not ask any commitment from my partners, and there is no guarantee that she will ever be reunited with this Gorim that she speaks so highly of. Surely you do not imagine that she is still _pure_ , Alistair, that she is _saving_ herself? _Cora_ did not have any vow of chastity or strict Chantry to keep her in line, you know...” Alistair wasn’t actually sure that there was a word in any language for the colour of his face right now. But he set his jaw and tensed his shoulders determinedly, even as Zevran continued, oblivious. “So why would you expect me to stop flirting with such a pretty little thing?”

And then Alistair moved with a speed learned from years of combat drills and slammed Zevran back against the nearest tree. Of course, training under the Crows is even more rigorous, and even in his surprise Zevran had a hand on Alistair’s chest and another reaching for his own knife hilt.

But in a moment, the training learned through countless encounters in brothels, inns and bedrooms took over. The hand moving towards his knife detoured to Alistair’s waist, while the other stayed pressed between them, warm against Alistair’s chilled armour.

They were kissing.

Alistair hadn’t planned for this, and Zevran hadn’t expected it, but now that it was happening neither felt the need to end it. Zevran ignored the large knot of bark digging into his lower back, and Alistair didn’t notice the melting snow seeping into his gauntlets. Much more important was the way that their knees brushed, the way the pressure everywhere they touched was noticeable even through two sets of hardened leather armour, and above all was the press of their mouths. Like everything between them, this was an argument, not entirely friendly, but this time neither one minded who won.

Alistair gasped as they separated, Zevran’s tongue tangling with his as he withdrew like a promise - one too dirty for simple speech. Then they were looking at each other, staring straight into each other’s eyes, breathing each other’s air. The scant space between their lips felt almost damp with a new sort of tension.

Nearly a minute of silence passed, Alistair still leaning against Zevran who was propped against a handy fir tree, before the templar suddenly flushed again and averted his eyes. Stepping back, he stared at the ground. Hey, look, were those rabbit footpri-

“Well, well, well.” The vowels were long and drawn-out, the repeated syllable stretched and coated in the honey Zevran used so expertly. Of course he sounded smug, he was still the same Zevran after all. “I think this is the first time anyone’s wanted to challenge someone - and a lovely young lady, for that matter - for my honour.”

When Zevran’s arms wound up around his neck, a cold nose brushing over the stubble on his jaw, Alistair’s blush only deepened. But he did manage to gather the courage to look up at Zevran again. He was proud to say that his voice hardly quavered at all as he spoke.

“I’m definitely not fool enough to challenge Cora for you - she’d wipe the floor with me. And anyway, I hardly think your _honour_ is what I’m after, Zev.”

Alistair really didn’t think he could get any more explicit than that; regardless of the fact he’d left that life behind him, he’d still been raised a Chantry-boy, and he was not particularly less innocent than he’d been when Duncan rescued him. Certainly not in a practical sense, in any case. But he relaxed somewhat when Zevran laughed. He could feel the sound as it rumbled through the elf’s chest where he was wrapped around him, and it seemed a simple thing to put his own arms around a narrow waist, resting his hands in the tempting hollow just above Zev’s tailbone.

“O-ho! We _are_ feeling feisty today, aren’t we, my _dear_ Alistair? Care to tell me what you are after from me then?”

The return to teasing was comforting, a snatch of normality to anchor himself to in this increasingly unfamiliar situation. Alistair had never really thought about the things he wanted from Zevran, and he was sure that at some point in the future he would have to, but right now that seemed like far too serious a discussion to have. Far too much introspection and careful consideration involved. Rather, this seemed like the time to go with exactly what his body and the majority of his mind demanded.

“According to the Grand Cleric and the Chantry, I’m going to be doomed anyway, so I may as well go out in style, right? Although we should probably pick up all this wood and get back to camp first, maybe even find a tent, before anything … _important_ gets frozen off.”

Zevran’s only reply was a smirk, before he spread one hand over the side of Alistair’s head, sliding his fingers through the short, springy hair and tugged him back down into another kiss.

*~*~*~*

The next day saw them back on the journey to the gates of Orzammar. Alistair was taking point, using his shield and broad, muscled body to forge a path through the snow that had thickened overnight. Cora was behind and to the right, Zevran mirroring her position on Alistair’s left, both of them broadening the road made by their stronger comrade. Morrigan followed in their wake, ready to help should she be needed and in the meantime maintaining a low-level warmth spell that not only kept their extremities from turning to ice but also melted the snow just enough to make it easier to shove aside and stamp down. The scenery was still the monotonous view of craggy whiteness, only broken by the hardy fir trees. Far behind them, Sten, Leliana and Wynne followed at an easier pace, accompanied by Hamish the war-hound, carrying the majority of the party’s supplies and necessities.

In fact, the only thing that was different from the day before was Alistair’s disposition. The black mood of yesterday had been replaced by a comfortable feeling of satisfaction, underpinned by a slow-moving current of desire centred on the elf striding along behind him.

Zevran hadn’t flirted with Cora once.

She’d certainly left him openings, and that morning when she’d called a temporary halt to allow Morrigan to warm them up properly while they gnawed on the cheese Alistair had insisted they buy before they left Redcliffe, he’d seen her shooting concerned glances at their pet assassin. Since then Alistair had been trying to hide the cocky and self-satisfied expression that was attempting to creep across his face.

Of course, he should have realised that this blissful state of affairs could only last so long. Zevran was always going to be Zevran, and Zevran was an incurable flirt.

They’d stopped for a lunch of crackers and some salted meat that Alistair would rather not identify, and after a few minutes of quiet as everyone concentrated on eating and restoring feeling to their legs and arms, they had all relaxed back onto the rocks Morrigan’s spells had cleared for them. A pleasant feeling of companionship was just starting to form in the lull when Zevran looked up from studying his boots - still that soft doeskin pair from Antiva that Cora had given him, despite the harsh conditions - and opened his mouth, a wicked smile on his full lips.

Alistair’s heart sank.

But then, to his surprise, Zevran spared only a grin and a wink for Cora before shifting to face Alistair himself. His heart fluttered back up to its normal position in his chest and gave an odd thump, even as he restrained the urge to run away or burst into a barrage of nervous babble.

“Alistair,” and if the way Zevran said his name now wasn’t positively sinful, then the Chantry had really failed to teach him the meaning of the word, “when we were camping near Lake Calenhad, I couldn’t help but overhear a conversation between you and our dear Warden. Apparently you weren’t very fond of the experience of - what was it? - ‘licking a lamp post in winter’? Well,” and now Alistair could sense where this was going, there was no way he could stop the flush that was climbing rapidly up his neck, “I take it I would not be wrong to assume that you might have _revised_ your opinion? You seemed rather to _enjoy_ yourself, after all.”

Alistair’s jaw dropped, and he stammered almost wordlessly, unable to form any sort of response. Had Zevran always been so direct in his more inappropriate behaviour? Morrigan snorted - there was going to be no end of teasing from her, Alistair knew - and Zevran grinned triumphantly, eyes challenging Alistair to deny it. Not that Alistair would try to, even if he wasn’t currently speechless. Cora just slapped a hand over her eyes, groaning at their antics while hiding a smile. Out loud she grouched.

“Now that you’ve both finally got your acts together and jumped into the same bedroll, we’re never going to hear the end of it, are we?”

But privately, she was congratulating herself on the success of keeping up a constant flirtation with Zevran. It had been fun but a strain on her patience, and she couldn’t help but feel slightly like she was being unfaithful to Gorim - but by the looks of Alistair’s blush and Zevran’s leer, it had all been worth it in the end.


End file.
